Alone
by Stretch1
Summary: Time has past, the newsies have gone, and one person looks back and remembers. POV of someone we know, but won't be revealed until the last chapter.
1. Racetrack

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. I don't own the characters or anything else in the movie. Blah blah blah. Here is the fic!

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Yeah, I remember why they came. All of them. They each had a story   
to go with their hardened hearts and dirty faces. Hell, I was no   
exception. The worst thing though, was when they left. They had   
their reasons, I ain't saying they didn't, but when family leaves,   
you feel it.   
  
Anthony was first. Racetrack, we called him. Heart of a lion and his   
face always in racing form. You didn't want to cross him though. He   
had a serpent's tongue and a way with making every word a stab in   
your pride. He had his good sides, too. No one is arguing there. He   
came in from Brooklyn, on the back of a carriage, looking for   
someplace that wasn't as harsh as his last residence.   
  
At first he didn't speak of his past, but through the years I pieced   
it together. His father was an alcoholic and his mother was morally   
weak. She was a bad example of a maternal figure, which was   
something a lot of these children were exposed to. Anthony used to   
leave his house when his father was at the bar drinking and his   
mother was asleep or away, and visit the horse races at Sheepshead   
Bay. There was something about the thrill of not knowing what was   
going to happen next that he loved dearly.   
  
Sooner or later, of course, his father found out about his visits to   
the tracks, and had a small chat with him. I say small chat, not   
because it was a short conversation where they quickly reached an   
understanding, but because there wasn't much talking going on at   
all. There was, however, a lot of punches thrown, most of them   
directed towards the small boy. God, he couldn't have been more than   
eight or nine then. He was beyond his years, though, and left the   
turmoil of his family life behind.   
  
First he stayed in Brooklyn, in the city where fights were more   
common than conversation, and for every friend you had ten enemies.   
Don't get me wrong, he was a good fighter, and had a hell of a left   
hook, but he was more of the talking sort than the fighting sort,   
and left for Manhattan after a life in the harshest city in New   
York.   
  
I remember the day I met him. I was in the lobby of the lodging   
house and he just walked right in, like he owned the place, and   
asked if he could stay. He had no money, and I loaned him twenty-  
five cents to get by a few weeks with a roof over his head so he   
could build up his profits. From that moment on, he was a Manhattan   
newsie, and a damn good one if I ever saw it. He saved some money   
for the next day's papers, and took the rest to Sheepshead to   
indulge in the pastime he had enjoyed since childhood.   
  
Then that damn strike happened. I saw the whole lot of them get   
pushed, punched, bruised, beaten for just a small percentage of   
profits. Racetrack was trained for this, though, since his Brooklyn   
days had never worn out of him. What is that saying? You can take   
the boy out of Brooklyn, but you can't take the Brooklyn out of the   
boy.   
  
They won, thank God, but the problems never stopped. They were still   
treated as if they didn't matter, like they were sent on earth to be   
tortured. After a while, it began to wear down Racetrack, the street-  
smart gutter-mouth I had grown accustomed to seeing everyday. The   
afternoon he left, he put a fifty-cent piece in my hand, said, "This   
is for whoever needs it. I came here with nothin' and ya helped me   
out. Here's my debt at ya and my chance ta help anyone that comes   
through the lodging house doors who's just like me, May God have   
mercy on them," he finished, crossing himself like the Catholic he   
was and then he was gone.   
  
I got a letter from him a few years back. He owns a racetrack   
somewhere in New Jersey. Even put in the fact that their strike had   
spread all the way to where he was. It made him proud to be a part   
of it. A few more letters came, of how he met this wonderful girl   
whom was sure to never like him back, him marrying the girl, and   
finally having two children before she passed away. I never heard   
from him again after that. I only hope that he is alright. I wonder   
if he has met anyone else or if he is a widower for life.   
  
The main thing I wonder about is if he still goes to the races he   
loved so much in his years as a child and on through to his early   
adult years. I wonder if he still has that tough air and that   
serpent's tongue. I wonder, above all things, if he is still   
Racetrack.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
So there it is, chapter 1. Hope you liked it. E-mail me and tell me   
what you think.   
  
Stretch


	2. Snoddy

HEY!! Wow!! I got a lot of replies from this between the mailing list I am in and ff.net!!! I AM SOOO HAPPY YOU ALL LIKE IT!! To those of you reading Things Change, I am kind of at a writer's block right now and don't know where to go with it. I will update it soon though!

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Raven: don't worry, I'll do one of these for everyone….including SPOT!

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Kicker: THANKS!!! You lazy bum! Kidding, is this soon enough for you??? HEHEHE. 

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Brightsoul: THANK YOU!! I'll have all of them up soon enough!!!! 

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The Omniscient Bookseller: WOOT! Yeah, Race rocks!!!

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Klover: YOUR REVIEW MADE ME LEAP WITH GIDDINESS!! Hehehe!!!! I definitely will be doing more…SEE!!!

Back to the story!!!

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Michael. How could I forget someone like him? He was first   
introduced to us as weak. He was tall and wouldn't be thought of as   
lanky, but he was often sick. I remember a time where he had a cold   
so bad we thought he had Tuberculosis. Snoddy, we called him, on   
account of he was always wiping that nose of his from all the   
disease that he would get. Despite all that, however, he had a   
strong personality. With all he had been through, he had to. If he   
didn't, chances are he would have killed himself even before the   
depression of adolescence had the chance to set in.   
  
I believe I heard him speak of his mother on several occasions.   
True, he would never actually refer to her as his mother, but you   
could tell who he was talking about by the way he spoke. She was a   
young woman when she had him. Raped by someone, I believe. When   
Michael was born, all she could see was that man that had taken   
advantage of her, tearing away her clothes as well as her pride. She   
quickly gave him to some couple that took in children such as our   
Snoddy, from people such as her.   
  
Neglect was common in such places, and this one was no exception. It   
was because of this neglect that he had succumbed to illness often   
as a child. The smell alone would make someone ill, but piled on top   
of that was urine covering the floor of the bathroom from the little   
ones as well as insects scaling the walls in search for food, and   
that was on a good day.   
  
By the age of ten, filthy and exhausted, Snoddy showed up to our   
home. Eager to leave the family he was left with, we welcomed him   
openly to join ours. He adjusted well, and though it took some of   
the newsies to warm up to him due to his constant illness, he was   
friendly to all around him.   
  
His ability to fight off disease weakened as he grew. The hot sun   
beating down on the back of his neck causing nausea in the summer,   
the colds that flew around during the harsh winter, and all the flu   
in between had a debilitating effect on him. He passed out in the   
lobby of the lodging house from heat exhaustion in mid-July one   
year. He would wake up to vomit and then would pass out once more. I   
remember telling the rest of the boys the news of his condition each   
night, and those who had religion would pray for him each day. I   
caught Bumlets and Specs holding their rosaries so tight I was sure   
their hands would bleed. Though he recovered, he was still very   
frail. Snoddy soon left the city in search of somewhere that wasn't   
engulfed in industrial smoke as New York was.   
  
Years later, I received notice from his daughter somewhere in Maine   
that he had fallen ill once more and thought I should know. She had   
sent notice to all his "family". In other words, us. I never heard   
of how he was. I hold the hope in my heart that my letter of his   
recovering was lost, and that the others were sure I received mine   
and, therefore, didn't feel the need to tell me. Whatever happened   
to him, I remember his ill body, but his strong mind the most.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
There, kind of sad but its a newsies life and they didn't dance   
happily in the streets the whole time. Hope you liked it!!!  
  
Stretch  



	3. Kid Blink

Hey!   
I know I just posted one of these, but they are short and I'd   
hate to keep the natives waiting. I would like to thank you all for   
replying! I would go back to my replies thingy and see who all that   
was...but I am KINDA lazy at the moment. I will thank you all later!   
Maybe with chapter 4!! THANK YOU GUYS SOOOO MUCH FOR REVIEWING!!!   
You made Stretch very happy!  
  
On to Chapter 3!  
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He came in with a small bag draped over his shoulder and a faded   
brown patch over his left eye. A prop, we all were sure of it. His   
blond hair lay matted on his forehead, which I found odd,   
considering it was the middle of winter. New Year's, to be exact. He   
had been running from something, whether it be enemy newsies, the   
bulls, or relatives he was escaping, I will never know.   
  
"A second chance," was all he said to me. He was apparently a newsie   
before he came to us. Blind Diamond they called him, but he later   
confessed to me his name was Lewis. The "Diamond" part always   
confused me, but I never pried. He wanted a new name though, his old   
nickname had too much emotional baggage with it and he had always   
despised "Lewis". So, for the longest time, none of us knew what to   
call him. We would just say, "Hey, kid," if we needed him for   
something. Eventually, like all nicknames do, it stuck. Within a few   
months the "Blink" part was added, some joke one of the newsies made   
about his eye patch.   
  
"He ain't blind, he's just too lazy to blink with that eye," one of   
the older boys said one day. Kid simply bowed in a sarcastic and   
arrogant way, and soon we had a complete name for the kid. Well, Kid   
Blink. He was always joking, and whether or not it was funny to   
anyone else didn't matter. We never really knew about his past, what   
was really going on with that eye of his, or even what he was   
thinking sometimes. One thing was sure though, despite it all he   
always had a smile on his face the size of Brooklyn.  
  
He had to smile. What else was there for him to do? He couldn't   
think of what had happened to him. He couldn't dwell on the past.   
Letting his mind drift back to the days of orphanages and harsh   
guardians would have been the end of him. Blink wouldn't be the   
happy-go-lucky kid we knew, he'd be a shadow of a human being. Just   
drifting by, existing, with his head so full of depressing memories   
that the sight of others would make him flinch.  
  
I remember the scars. Most of them had them all over their bodies.   
The only times I remember seeing that lost, depressed look in his   
eye was when I saw him look at them. Rubbing his dirty hands over   
them, as if they still burned angrily on his skin. From the   
orphanages, no doubt. Why no one ever shut those damn places down is   
beyond me.   
  
Blink was never one to stick around forever. Whether it be a girl, a   
group a friends, even a place to stay, he was always changing.   
Sooner or later, he longed to see what was beyond the Manhattan   
Boy's Lodging House, and past the life of a New York newsboy. The   
last thing I asked him was about his first nickname, Blind Diamond.   
It had been in the back of my mind for years and if he was leaving,   
I might as well ask him before it drove me insane. Kid simply smiled   
broadly, lifted the faded brown eye patch to reveal a glazed over,   
white-blue left eye.   
  
"They said it looked like a diamond was shoved in my eye. Been like   
that since I was born," he said plainly. With one last smile, he   
trotted out, once again with the small bag draped over his shoulder,   
and still with the faded brown eye patch over his eye.   
  
Another new beginning for Kid Blink. New beginnings mean you cut   
ties with the things you've left behind. In Kid's case, it was us.   
Needless to say, I never heard from him again. He probably has a new   
nickname. I wonder what it is this time. No matter what they call   
him now, I am sure of one thing: despite it all, he still has that   
smile the size of Brooklyn.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That's chapter 3!!! I know its been a short time since my last post, but I decided that while I had the day off I would post about Blink. Hope you liked it!!!

Stretch 


	4. PieEater

You know, not once since I knew him did he ever eat pie. Silly   
comment I know, until you realize his name. Pie-Eater. I had no idea   
why he came to us and put that name down on the lodging house book,   
but it wasn't my place to ask questions. We called him by it whether   
we knew why he got it or not.   
  
He was always energetic. He ran around, jumping over shit like some   
kind of rabid animal. To tell you the truth, I don't think he needed   
any pie. Any more sugar and he would have gone into seizures. But,   
that was Pie-Eater. A bit chaotic, but he kept us entertained those   
rainy nights when the only thing to do was sit inside and stare. I   
think he was finally having a childhood.   
  
His father raised him to sit down, shut up, and do what he was damn   
well told. Playing was a joke, and if he ever crossed the high-  
strung adult, no matter what happened, he was to be man enough not   
to cry. Hell, he could hit him over the head with a pipe and Pie was   
supposed to keep a straight face. His father didn't know how to   
raise children, and Pie's mother died when he was quite young. When   
she died, Pie's youth died with her.   
  
Ah, his mother. It's odd when a child loves someone so much and that   
person passes away. The only memories a child can hold from that   
person are perfect. Pie always held his mother on a pedestal. He   
would laugh about the fact that she couldn't cook. He said the only   
thing she was good at making was pie. So, proud of the fact that she   
could do that decently, she made them all the time. I don't know how   
many times he told me that story, but each time it made me laugh.   
After she died, it was odd, but he couldn't eat pie anymore. They   
reminded him of her. Its strange the way we deal with death   
sometimes. He missed her terribly when she was gone. A child of   
seven can't take loss well.   
  
Tired of the stern atmosphere suffocating him at home, he ran away.   
He never had the chance to be a child at home, which all children of   
New York are used to. So, when he signed up at the age of eleven, he   
finally had the chance to release the seven year old that had been   
going mad inside him.   
  
He wasn't always happy though. He used to sit in the bathroom beside   
the bunkroom, and either vomit or lightly bang his head on the wall.   
Confusion consumed him when there was no one to talk to in the   
middle of the night and the memories would scream like sirens inside   
his head. His father's anger, the unjust circumstances that left him   
emotionally scarred and begging for food on the harsh Manhattan   
streets ran through his head. In some odd way, it wasn't just being   
away from his father that kept him happy, it was having the others   
to talk to that kept him from dwelling on it.   
  
He had less nights engulfed in confusion and anger as more people   
came, and as he grew older. He had a knack with dealing with the   
younger ones. He was an incredible older brother to them. Instead of   
becoming callous from the streets, Pie-Eater remained   
compassionate. The odd thing was, he was terrified to become a   
father. He told me once that if he is anything like his father, he   
would rather go through life alone than do to someone else what was   
done to him. But he wasn't his old man, and I could only hope that   
through time he would realize that.   
  
As did his childhood, his time as a newsie had to end. He smiled at   
me, thanked me for the company I had given him through the years,   
and was gone. I knew that he still held emotional wounds, but   
instead of open and stinging, they had healed over and bared only a   
small sign of his past.   
  
I couldn't believe my eyes and told myself it wasn't true over and   
over again. He came back to New York, after a while in Vermont. For   
such a wild newsie, I found it odd that he now favored the quiet   
life. Not so quiet I soon learned, as our Pie-Eater, Joseph to his   
wife, had become a father after all. I shook hands with his son, and   
the darling daughter even let me kiss her on the cheek. Before he   
left, he leaned in to whisper in my ear something that will stay   
with me forever. He glanced over at his wife, looked at me and   
said, "The greatest thing about her is, she can't cook to save her   
life, except for one thing. She can make a great pie."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

OMG! THE SOs are on the bottom this time!!! AHHH!!! OK, HERE GOES!  


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Southern Spell: Hmmm…you'll just have to wait and see.

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Klover: YAY!!! Yeah, life was Hell back then…but the dancing newsboys helped. I know they didn't really do that, but we can dream, can't we?

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GypsyRuth: THANK YOU SOO MUCH!! I'm all warm and fuzzy now!

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Hotshot: YOU NEED TO UPDATE!! Hehehe!! Thanks for reviewing! CAN'T WAIT 'TIL I GET TO SPECS!!!

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Sqky0o7: Falling out of chairs is fun!!! Toying with your sleep pattern? Me? No! Never!!! MWAHAHAHAHA…*cough*….excuse me. 

There you go. A little lighter than the others, but still kind   
of...bleh. Yeah, great vocab word, ain't it? Don't be surprised if   
it ends up on the SATs one day!  
  
Stretch


	5. Jack Cowboy Kelly

HEY!!!! THANKS FOR ALL THE REVIEWS!!! YAY!!

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Gretch: MY GRETCHY!!! I LOVE YA!!! I swear, I think you are my long lost twin. 

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Sqky0o7: YOU ROCK! I think everyone likes a happy ending every now and then. 

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Celtic Lass: THANK YOU SOOO MUCH!! Don't worry, I won't forget Crutchy!

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Hotshot: We want Specs to do everything…then again, is that so bad?

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Klover: You never fail to give me a kick ass review! You get a cookie!

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Dream: IT WAS NICE CHATTING WITH YOU!!! Hmm…who's talking? We'll have to wait and see!

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Southern Spell: Don't worry, I'll keep writing. Thanks for your review!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He always had leadership qualities. He may not have been the oldest,   
but he knew how to get people to listen. That took talent. He didn't   
believe himself to be intelligent, but we knew beyond the foul mouth   
and black eyes he had the potential to be something…great. His   
father never saw that in him. Probably because the only potential he   
had was to get himself thrown in prison. The thought of his son   
doing better than him didn't appeal to him in the slightest. As bad   
as it may sound, Francis was better off without him.  
  
His mother died years ago. How, I can not say, but the world might   
just be a better place without her. I don't mean to sound cruel, but   
whenever Francis's father would do…something…to him, she would just   
stand and watch. He told me once that he turned to look at her once,   
when his father was tearing his skin with the buckle of his belt,   
and she just smiled and turned away. That look on her face is burned   
inside his head forever.   
  
When she died and his father was finally in jail, Francis was sent   
to an orphanage near Greenwich Village. Needless to say, he didn't   
last long. There were too many people like his parents running the   
place. After several failed attempts, he finally escaped, running   
from the orphanage like his life depended on it. He didn't tell us   
about his parents at first, and even lied about his past every   
chance he got. It might have been because he thought that if we knew   
the truth then we would ostracize him or something. I don't blame   
him for lying. People lie when they're ashamed. I know I used to.   
  
He adopted the name Jack Kelly at the Refuge. Some kid came in with   
a comic or something with a cowboy on the front. Knowing   
that "Francis" didn't sound much like cowboy material, he decided to   
change it. He read one called Cowboy Jack, and his sidekick was Sam   
Kelly, the fastest gunslinger in Santa Fe. I guess that's where his   
love for the West started.   
  
We all thought Jack was going to leave after the strike, but to our   
surprise he stayed around a bit longer. He sorted out his issues and   
even had a small relationship with David's sister, Sarah, before he   
decided to officially leave for Santa Fe for good. The others were   
starting to leave the lodging house and get on with their lives, and   
Jack figured it was time for him to do the same. He dropped the   
Cowboy Jack comic he had taken from the Refuge on the desk of the   
lodging house for the next lonely kid who desperately wanted   
something to strive for and believe in.   
  
I didn't even have to look at the name in the top left corner of the   
envelope. Once I saw the Santa Fe address, I knew it was him. Inside   
was a story he had written for orphaned children that were shipped   
like cattle to the West to find family. He told me in a letter with   
it that he owned a type of lodging house in Santa Fe. He was still   
Jack "Cowboy" Kelly, except for one thing. Instead of telling the   
children of New York fictional tales of the West, he told the kids   
of Santa Fe true stories of New York.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
There you go!!! Chapter 5!!! Hope you liked it!!!  
  
Stretch


	6. Bumlets

  
HI!!!!!  
I am pressed for time and can't do shout outs for my reviews, I   
will do that with the next fic, I promise!!! Here is chapter 6!!!   
Enjoy!!! Hope you like!  
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The Spanish gypsy. He had this strength in his eyes that I had never   
seen before, particularly in someone so young. His energy astounded   
me and the intelligence he possessed went beyond his years. It might   
have come from his background. After all, gypsies are said to have   
a type of enlightenment about life and people that others seem to   
lack. He also seemed to see the world through the eyes of a child   
yet still have the understanding of an adult. That is a rare thing,   
and I should know.   
  
I think his name meant "wanderer" or "vagrant", but I can never be   
too sure. He received the name Bumlets before he came to us, but we   
went along with it. The person was actually more interesting than   
the name, to tell you the truth. When he was around, there was   
always something to get into. He had thousands of stories in his   
head for rainy nights and games to play for sunny days. These things   
had been past down to him by his parents, who had moved to New York   
like so many other had: in search for a better life.   
  
What they found, instead, was hostility. They were supposedly filthy   
creatures who deserved nothing more than to have scraps thrown at   
them on the streets. Intolerance is the most savage of beasts,   
because its spoiled by the ignorance of conformists and feeds off   
the pain of individuals. Their Catholic faith was attacked by some,   
while their gypsy heritage was attacked by others. This, of course,   
made it impossible for Bumlet's father to find a job. And they call   
this the land of opportunity? Right.  
  
He arrived to the lodging house on an April evening, and I remember   
distinctly that it had been storming. His black hair lay disheveled   
and dripping as he asked if there was any possibility for him to get   
a job as a newsie. He started the next morning and worked selling   
every edition everyday , rain or shine. God, it could have been   
hailing bullets and he would have continued like it was nothing.   
That was Bumlets, though.  
  
He stayed in the lodging house to relieve some stress from his   
parents, and he gave them his profits each day. The beginning weeks   
were harsh for the young vagrant. The others donated part of their   
profits to help feed Bumlets. Sooner or later, his mother got a job   
cleaning the tenements around the area and his father began working   
in a coal mine where his gypsy heritage didn't matter.   
  
Like all vagabonds, Bumlets soon felt the need to move on. Who am I   
to argue with a restless soul? His family had done it for centuries,   
and it would have been impractical to think it would have ended with   
Bumlets. He walked out suddenly, which is the same way he walked in.   
  
He did keep contact though. I'm not sure if sending letters to old   
friends was a cultural thing or not, but he did it anyway. He   
traveled all over the country, stopping in odd places to get odd   
jobs in order to support himself to go on to the next odd place. He   
sent pictures of mountain ranges, deserts, and grasslands. I saw   
every site there was to see in this country through his photographs   
and post cards. They stopped after a while. Why, I can't say.   
Perhaps he was too much of a drifter to keep contact with past   
friends. I miss his photographs, and am still unsure about that name   
of his, but the person was what was truly the best to have known.  
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There's Bumlets's story! Reviews are more than welcome!!!  
  
Stretch  



	7. Skittery

HI!!!   
That's right. Its the Skittery chapter. Sorry I didn't give you   
guys a chapter yesterday, but I was tired and not inspired in the   
slightest and I did give you two fics the other day...so there.   
  
**Klover: **BAH! Who cares about the spelling? All that matters is the kick assness!!!!

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Southern Spell: hmmm…should I call you Getcha??? THANKS FOR THE REVIEW!

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Sqky0o7: Bumlets rocks everyone's socks!!! Oh…and no more Ace Ventura. My newsie mind can't handle it. Hehehe. Kidding. Well…maybe not. Good to hear how much you LOVE Jack!

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Hotshot: As much as we adore Specs, to not love Bumlets would be newsie sacrilege. AND HOW DARE ME MAKE JACK A NICE GUY??? BAD STRETCH!!!  


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Gypsy Ruth: AWWW!!! THANKS!!!! 

  
Whew! Okay, thanks to all of you wonderful people for your reviews   
on all the fics. Here is the next chapter of Alone...dun dun DUN!  
  
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I don't blame him for always shying away from people. He did that   
for at least a year after I met him. He slowly got used to being   
around people though, and realized that not everyone wanted to hurt   
him. A year really isn't that bad, considering how awfully they   
treated him for the first eleven years of his life. When I first lay   
my eyes on him I thought he had been in a fight with one of the   
scabs in the area. I was soon to find out that the black eye and   
busted lip was from an uncle of his. Skittery, we called him, and it   
stayed that way.   
  
There were times he had to vent about his past. Some people prefer   
to keep it hidden, but to him it was a poison that he had to get out   
of his system. Skittery would often come to me to release his pent   
up anger. Through his venting sessions I got know a great deal about   
his childhood. He bounced around to different aunts and uncles, and   
it was obvious that none of them wanted him. He was another mouth to   
feed. They never saw him as their nephew, just a waste of their hard-  
earned money. I don't know what happened to his parents, and I would   
be surprised if he even knew the truth. Each set of guardians told   
him something different. After a while, he just learned not to ask   
and not to pay attention to what they said.   
  
Some of them really didn't talk to him to begin with, though. They   
usually let their fists do the talking. Hell, some of them could   
give the Delanceys a run for their money. It was only a matter of   
time before Skittery ran, but it would take him longer to deal with   
the scars they left him with.   
  
He didn't let anyone get to know him for a while. I guess he was too   
accustomed to people hurting him. It made sense to Skittery that   
anyone he got to know would only hurt him in return, emotionally and   
physically. That was the way the world worked through his eyes. As   
depressing as it is, some people can't help but see the world around   
them as sinister and livid.  
  
The shield he kept up began to melt away after a few months as he   
realized that we weren't here to hurt him. Instead of staying in his   
bunk silently after selling his papers, he began to join in the card   
games that lasted for hours in the lodging house. Skittery started   
to learn about the others and where they came from, why they were   
selling papes on street corners. He, in turn, became more   
comfortable with the world around him, but also gained a small chip   
on his shoulders from the anger his childhood left him with.   
  
Racetrack particularly got on his case about the attitude he had   
gotten, but even he had to admit that Skittery wasn't all "glum and   
dumb", as he used to call him. He had a sense of humor that would   
often cheer up the others on a bad day. There were always bad days,   
and we had to deal with them the best way we could.   
  
Like the others, his time to leave came soon enough. He came to the   
lodging house bruised and broken, scared of anyone that would even   
glance in his direction. He left with his head held high and a smile   
on his face. True, he had a black eye, but this time it was from a   
fight he started. I wondered as he closed the door behind him, if I   
would ever see or hear from him again. For a while I was sure that   
it was an empty wish, but he managed to remember me somehow. Not too   
long ago he waltzed in to see me, with that same smile on his face   
as the day he left some years back.   
  
"I write," he told me. This came as a surprise to me, coming from   
someone who wasn't all that great at reading and writing to begin   
with. He learned though, just as he learned to trust the world   
around him. It took him a while of course, but all things worth   
learning usually do. He decided to write a book about the lodging   
house, and how it helped him. I asked him why he became a writer,   
since it never appealed to him since I knew him. He laughed slightly   
and said, "I have two things that all writers require, a bad   
childhood and a chip on my shoulders."   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
There you go! Another chapter done. Hope you like it!!! I say that a   
lot...BUT ITS TRUE!!   
  
Stretch  



	8. Specs

HEYA!!!  
Thanks again for all the reviews!!! They are always appreciated!!!  
  
**Gypsy Ruth: **THANKS!!! I keep thinking that I am the only one that sees these guys this way. Nice to know I'm not!

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Gretch: AHH!!! GRETCHSTER!!! Of course you got a shout out, ya dork. I love ya! I rock? Yeah, I know…I mean…THANKS!!!! Reviews getting annoying??? NEVER!!!

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Celtic Lass: No problem! Sometimes we need to be reminded that life was harsh…and we didn't dance in the streets on command. Oh well…its still fun to watch!! Oh, and thanks for the compliments!!! I REALLY appreciate them! As well as you taking time out to read my stories!!!

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Skinflint: THANKS FOR YOUR REVIEW!!! Your story was great!! I love reading morbid, disturbing stories. Those romances get old after a while. 

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Spatz: THANKS!! (alright, all these thank yous are bound to annoy someone) Don't worry, there will be plenty more!!!

  
and all the others who read it!!! THANKS!!! HERE IT IS!!!  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Disease thrived in his life. That was probably why he avoided Snoddy   
for the first few weeks. I don't blame him. With what he had   
experienced, you can't help but understand his fear. Every time one   
of the other boys became ill, Specs would kind of evade them,   
sleeping in the farthest bunk and spending his time alone on the   
roof. At first, the others believed him to be cold and distant by   
nature. They didn't know the pain he had experienced so early in   
life.   
  
His mother died in childbirth with Specs. The frail Russian woman   
couldn't handle it, and shortly after naming her child, she was sent   
up with the angels. Misha, she called him, and I laugh to myself   
whenever I think of the meaning. She must have known what he was   
going to be like, otherwise she wouldn't have given him a name   
meaning "rebellious". Mothers must have an innate sense of how   
their children`s minds work and personalities are. How else would   
she have known how well it suited him?  
  
Specs often told me his father was the epitome of an Irishman. He   
sang songs at the top of his lungs, played any instrument he could   
get his hands on, and told all kinds of stories from off the top of   
his head. It was only a matter of time before he was to marry again.   
This time, to a compassionate French woman, who gave him nine   
wonderful years and two daughters. They may not have been wealthy,   
but they were certainly better off than other New York families, and   
were very lucky to have each other.   
  
As it often does, their luck ran out. Misha witnessed his good   
fortune deteriorate as the blood trickled down his step-mother's   
chin as she coughed deeply. They first thought it was a cold. That   
idea was thrown out when she passed on a few months later from   
Tuberculosis. Misha's father didn't have much time to grieve her   
passing; he died four months later from Pneumonia. The harsh New   
York winter has that effect on some people.   
  
He was always a smart ass. There is no question there. He based all   
his responses on the idea of "you ask a dumb question you get a dumb   
answer". As witty and amusing as it was to us in the lodging house,   
it had the opposite effect on the people running the orphanage. He   
said something remotely sarcastic, and he would be thrown to the   
wall with a blow from the man running the place. One thing that got   
me about Specs was he never knew when to keep that bog mouth of his   
shut, and every time that man would say or do anything to him, Specs   
always came back at him with a sardonic remark. Needless to say, he   
didn't do too well over there.   
  
I saw him peek into the doorway, asking if he was able to stay and   
under what conditions would allow him to do so. I told him what was   
required of him, and how much rent was, and he stayed with us from   
that night on. The other boys made him a bit nervous, as they hacked   
and coughed openly when they had a cold and whatnot, it took Specs a   
while to open up to them…and realize that they weren't trying to   
kill him.   
  
He was always a roof walker, that never changed. It seemed only   
fitting that it be the last bit of the lodging house that he ever   
saw. He climbed out onto the roof, we chatted a bit about what else   
was out there besides papes and deadlines, and with his small bag of   
belongings he descended the fire escape and out into the world   
below.   
  
He stayed in Manhattan, which was rare for a lot of them. He even   
opened a book store down near where he was born. I went in there one   
day to purchase one of Skittery's books, and he smiled, telling me   
it was a good choice and he had already read it three times. This   
was not a surprise, he was always a supportive and loyal friend. He   
still works there, and I see him quite often. If you are ever in   
Manhattan and decide you need a new book, feel free to stop into   
Specs's Specs and look around. Be careful, though. There is one   
thing that will never change, and that's his smart ass mouth.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
There is the chapter for my Sexy Specsy! Thats right...thats what I   
call him. Okay..again, everyone say it with me, hope you liked it   
and reviews are welcome. GOOD!! YOU ALL GET COOKIES!!  
  
Stretch  



	9. Dutchy

So, here we are…once again. CHAPTER 9!!!! TIME TO CELEBRATE!!! No? Okay, fine!

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Spatz: I was worried about the whole Skittery thing, actually. Good to know people liked it! Powerful? WOO!! Thanks!

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Hotshot: HEHEHE…Specs huddled in a corner. I didn't add anything about his siblings because I was worried I would be repeating too much of my other fic. Besides, this person doesn't know the siblings too well. SEXY SPECSY!!! YAY FOR SUGAR!

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Sqky0o7: AWW!!! POOR THING!! HOPE YOU ARE FEELING BETTER!!! Ace? You mean Race? I LOVE RACE!!! HE'S GENIUS!!!

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Celtic Lass: HAVE A CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE??? SURE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Klover: Skittery seemed to fit as a writer…seems others agree! YAY!!! Lodging House? Hmm……

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Gretch: Me stop writing fan fic??? NEVER!!! MWAHAHAHA!!! THANKS FOR THE ENDINGS COMPLIMENT!!! I try…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He didn't have an ounce of Dutch blood in his body. In fact, he 

was one-hundred percent Ukrainian, but that's not the point. Dmitri 

was one of those people you just couldn't help but get along with. 

He always had this foolish smile on his face, or his mouth was hanging 

wide open giving him the look of utter confusion. He wasn't as bemused 

as we all thought. In fact, he was quite intelligent and a quick 

learner. When I first met him, he couldn't speak more than two phrases 

of English and couldn't read a word in any language. He had overcome 

obstacles before, and sure enough he overcame the language barrier.

His parents planned it for years, moving to America to start a new 

ife in the "land of opportunity". Then, young Oksana Cynadijeve 

gave birth, causing her body to weaken and the thought of travel 

to become a mere dream. It was too dangerous for someone in her 

destabilized condition to travel, yet she pushed for her husband 

to go without her, and to take Dmitri in the hopes that he would 

rise above previous generations and prosper in New York. 

Prosperity for those in the lower class seemed impossible to achieve, 

even in America, a country that was so often labeled as a place 

of second chance for those who could do no better in their homeland. 

These dreams and expectations were shattered once they were forced 

in crowded tenements and obligated to work in ramshackle factories 

from dawn 'til dusk. Yes, that was, of course, the opportunity many 

came here for.

His father wasn't able to support the two of them on his own, leaving 

his son to search desperately for a job. There was one problem, 

he could only say "hello" and "how are you?" in English. It was 

evening when we saw him, several of us sitting around the front 

steps of the lodging house, enjoying the cool air. It was Racetrack 

who first spoke to him, asking him politely what he was doing out 

and if he would like to join. The young blond simply looked back, 

and then sadly turned his head. I will never know why, but Specs 

had the idea to scream "HELLO" in Russian at the poor young man. 

Well, in all honesty, I am happy he did. Because Russian is so closely 

related to Ukrainian, and that was all Dutchy knew to speak thus far, 

he smiled for the first time, and made his was over. 

They seemed to be perfect partners in crime. Both were the only 

two newsboys I knew that wore glasses, and both made us paranoid 

because we never knew what they were saying to each other. After 

a while, Specs began to teach Dmitri to speak English, and to read 

and write as well. The first book Specs ever borrowed from me to 

teach him with had a little Dutch boy and girl on the front, with 

tulips and a windmill in the background. Bumlets laughed upon looking 

at the cover, made the remark that it looked just like Dmitri, and the 

nickname "Dutchy" was born. 

He caught on quickly, first to English and then to the New York 

accent. Its hard to believe that It was the same person we met several 

years back on that cool day in front of the lodging house. He was 

also quick at catching on, like when it was his time to go. He packed 

his bags, and as a going-away present, I gave him that book with 

the Dutch children on the front. I never saw such an incredible 

look of gratitude as the one he gave me when he left. 

I received letters once a month from him. He went to Ukraine to 

see his mother, and started teaching English to the children in the 

area. After the unfortunate passing of Oksana, he came back home 

to New York and decided to teach here. He invited me to his 

classroom once, and upon entering I saw it was covered in photographs 

Bumlets had given him, books from Skittery, stories from Jack, and 

signs from the strike. I sat down and watched as he pulled out the 

book I had given him years before and started reading it to the 

children surrounding him, and I could swear I saw him wink at me 

as he finished with one of those foolish smiles on his face. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DUTCHY CHAPTER!!! WOO!!! ALMOST HALFWAY FINISHED!!!

Stretch


	10. Jake

HEY! I AM HALFWAY FINISHED!!! :::does little jig:::

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Spatz: The minor newsies need love too!

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BlackFire: Don't envy me! I'm a dork! SKITTLES ROCKS!

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Klover: Once again, you rock! Lodging House? There are several, but I don't belong to any as of yet.

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Celtic Lass: Of course everyone gets a cookie, I'm just happy you specified which one you wanted! 

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Gypsy Ruth: You see them the same way I do? CREEPY! Hehehe. I am worried these pasts are getting repetitive, but you can only have so much diversity with that amount of newsies!

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Britta: WOO!! MY FIRST REVIEW FROM YOU!! I get excited when I see new people review…hehehe…sorry about that. 

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Gretch: THERE IS GOING TO BE A DAVEY CHAPTER!!! Hehehe! What kind of person would I be if I didn't include him?

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Sqky0o7: Greatness reeks? Hmm…how does it smell? YOU CAN KEEP RACE!!! I HAVE SEXY SPECSY!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hayseed. Had he been given a nickname, that would have been it. He   
was the only person I knew that had been south of New York before he   
became a newsie. He might as well have been from another country,   
seeing as Manhattan was a world apart from Maryland. He was raised   
with southern hospitality, but learned to be tough on the streets up   
north. You had to adapt as a newsboy. It was not only a way of life,   
it was the only way to survive.   
  
He was about ten when I first met him, sporting overalls and a   
bowler hat. He wasn't from around here, anyone could tell. You can   
smell it on them before they even open their mouths to speak, giving   
it away with their accents. People just have an air of newness when   
they first set foot in New York, and any Yankee can tell you. It   
didn't bother us, though. We were used to people coming and going.   
Immigrants from some countries we had never heard of were all over   
the place. Hell, Ellis Island was crawling with people day in and   
day out. But when he opened his mouth and greeted us with that   
southern accent, our jaws dropped and we stared at him as if he grew   
a second head. He was the first person from below the Mason-Dixon   
line any of us had ever seen in person.   
  
It took a while, be he slowly lost the twang in his voice and   
adopted the more harsh New York tongue. Like the rest, he was   
compliant with the ways of New York life, hardening with every   
superior giant that crossed his path. He maintained his manners,   
though. His mother wouldn't appreciate him losing those, and he held   
her ideas highly.   
  
She was American through and through, raised on a farm in rural   
Maryland. She decided to expand her horizons and travel to New York,   
much to the dismay of her father. She didn't expect to meet Alain,   
and, further more, she didn't expect to marry him. However, it was   
him walking out on her, pregnant and penniless, that she didn't   
expect the most. Men can be cruel, and I should know. I'm one of   
them.   
  
Her father was devoted, though. And when she felt broken and   
abandoned, he took her back no questions asked. It might have been   
because of his loyalty to his daughter that inspired her to name her   
son Jake, after his grandfather, hoping he would become more like   
her father than her husband. She never got to see her son's life   
plan out, dying eight years into her son's life and leaving her   
father to take care of him. That was, until, the aged farmer's weary   
body could no longer keep up the responsibilities left to him,   
passing away in his sleep two years later.   
  
It must have been intimidating, a child his age making the trip to   
New York alone. He had the small amount of money his mother saved   
for him before she died, and decided to find his own way where his   
mother had tried years before. Being from the South, he had only   
imagined what Manhattan would be like, his mother telling him   
stories of it when he was younger. There was nothing left for him in   
Maryland, so he believed his only option to be Manhattan, with the   
stories his mother told him in his head.   
  
He hadn't been in New York for more than a day when he came knocking   
on our door, looking for a job and a place to stay. He adjusted   
well, quickly becoming friends with all those around him and leaving   
the southern way of life behind. He did keep his polite personality   
though, being the only newsboy to not get in trouble by ticking off   
an officer. That didn't stop him from being a strong   
fighter, "soaking" anyone that messed with him or his fellow   
newsies.   
  
He was still wearing those damn overalls and that bowler hat when he   
left. It was just the way he was, I guess. He decided he had had his   
fill of New York, and told me he had gotten notice that the farm he   
had grown up in was being left to him, since he had turned eighteen   
and was now old enough to carry a deed. He said he could do with a   
change, but I knew he was upset about leaving the hectic Manhattan   
streets. Jake looked at me sadly and asked why he had never gotten a   
nickname of his own. He then chuckled slightly, and went on his way.   
I wrote him once to see how he was, and instead of labeling   
it "Jake" I called him Hayseed. I figured he would have liked it   
better.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That's it! I'm going to go run for cover in fear now! Hope you like it, and have mercy if you didn't!!!

Stretch


	11. Swifty

Chapter 11 is here!! YAY!!! WOO HOO!!! 

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Klover: :::Gets up from under table with Klover's help::: Whew! Thanks! YOU RISKED BEING YELLED AT IN MATH FOR LITTLE OLE ME??? I feel so special!!!!

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Sureshot Higgins: THAT'S ALRIGHT!! You're reading it now and that's all that matters!!! It's odd that you ask which newsie is next, and mention Swifty…you were right!! I am going to do Spot, and I have been debating on Tumbler…you never know!

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Hotshot: You're not the only one who thought his choice in fashion was slightly irritating! 

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Gypsy Ruth: WE ARE ON THE SAME WAVELENGTH…as low as it may be…

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BlackFire: Hmm…Mono, eh?…interesting. Isn't much worse than SNODDY! Overalls have always bothered me. Go with suspenders, boy! THEY ARE SEXIER!!! People actually don't call me a dork…that's a label I have given myself! HEHEHE!!!

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Southern Spell: Hmm…I have called you that for this long, might as well keep going with it. At least for now. I try to think of pasts that you could see them doing, based on what they wear, how they act, etc. HOPEFULLY IT WORKS!!! I'm going to do one for Spot! Don't worry!

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Unnamed Anonymous Person…: Been in the South? Hmm…I live in North Carolina, so I am pretty sure I have been by it once or twice. 

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Nugget: YOU SHALL KNOW SOON ENOUGH!!!

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Sqky0o7: You name all your villains Jake? Did you hate some guy named Jake in a past life??? Me question your wording??? NEVER!!! Reeking is up there with some of the best!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
He was a pick-pocket by birth. Blame his father if you'd like. After   
all, he was the one who taught him the tricks of the trade. The   
Rake, his father would call him proudly any time he successfully   
snatched some valuable item. His specialty was wallets, pocket-  
watches, and anything else hidden in a man's jacket. He would just   
pretend he was being chased by the bulls, and would recklessly run   
through the streets, bumping into as many wealthy men as he could.   
By the end of the chase, he would have his hands and pockets filled   
with enough money to feed them and keep them on their feet for a   
week. It was survival, and the only means of survival he knew.   
  
His mother left years before, enraged by the way her "useless"   
husband had turned out, stealing and cheating his way through life.   
She wasn't too fond of the way her own son was turning out either, a   
spitting image of his father. So, she took the coward's way out,   
choosing to run from her family and the desperate life of poverty-  
stricken New York. The only things she left behind were memories and   
the Welsh blood coursing through her son's veins.   
  
He didn't necessarily want to steal. If there were another way, he   
would take it, which he did as soon as an opportunity presented   
itself. Oddly enough, he decided to rob a newsie one afternoon. Big   
mistake. He eyed Specs, seeing his gold pocket watch glistening in   
the sun, and ran for it. There was one problem, you don't steal from   
a newsie without a fight. Specs ran for him, oblivious to the people   
watching the two boys dart through the streets, into the alleys,   
over fences, and through buildings.  
  
If he hadn't come to a dead end, The Rake would have kept going,   
and eventually, perhaps, lost the older boy in the crowded city.   
Specs, ready to soak him, grabbed the boy by his collar and pushed   
him against a brick wall, livid and thoroughly irritated. Lucky   
Racetrack was nearby, or the hot-headed brunette would have killed   
him. Racetrack, even-tempered under pressure and pretty content with   
his day at the tracks, decided to give the pick-pocket a break.   
Either have Specs beat him, or give a reasonable reason why he   
should be left alone. After telling them it was his only way to keep   
going from day to day, he was shown mercy, and even offered a job.   
There was, of course, one condition: never steal from a newsie.   
  
His father, none too happy with his new career choice, decided he   
wouldn't have a newsie living under the same roof as himself. The   
young man was forced to make the lodging house his new home, and as   
given the name Swifty by Racetrack, seeing as even the long-legged   
Specs couldn't catch up to him. He made his new living an honest   
one, or as honest as a newsboy can get.   
  
His father ended up in jail, which Swifty learned through a   
newspaper article one day. He seemed pretty pleased about this,   
happy that his past was finally completely behind him. He stayed a   
few years as a newsboy, saving every penny he could and going   
without meals if he felt food wasn't necessary. "I want to be better   
than he was," Swifty said to me the day he left. He didn't need to   
tell me, he was already twice the man his father was.   
  
"So, you've become the enemy," I said to him as I came across him in   
the Bronx a while later. A police officer? Swifty? I couldn't   
believe my eyes. He decided he should pay his debt to society, and   
have the most upright careers if he could. He was still Swifty,   
faster than any bull in New York, and I watched him proudly, knowing   
how far he had come since we first met him years ago.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
So, there it is! Hope you liked it!!! :::runs and "hides" with Sexy Specsy in closet:::

Stretch


	12. Spot

SPOT CHAPTER!! I KNOW SOME OF YOU HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS!!! HERE   
IT IS!!!

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GypsyRuth: If I knew where to contact you, I would send you a pic of Swifty to set your poor mind at ease. LOW WAVELENGTHS ROCK! Hehehe! :::looks around::: See what?

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Southern Spell: YAY!!! Well, Spot is here, and not too long until Mush!!!

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Unnamed: I have no idea what to call you! Do you not have a name??? Anyway, thanks for the compliment! And, I am not sure so how I went against Southern hospitality in the other chapter…I didn't really elaborate on it. I just said he had manners. Oh well…

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Spatz: WOO!! PEOPLE LIKED MY SWIFTY COP IDEA!!! :::does little people-liked-my-swify-cop-idea dance::: Hayseed was touching? Hehehe! It was all I could think of!

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BlakeFire: YAY!! I UPDATE!! WOO!!! I get a marching band too?? YAY!!! Everyone should insult themselves!! It's a national pastime! Swifty the…pillowcase??? Hmmm…OH! I'm originally from the Seattle/Tacoma area, and raised in a Southern city. Not too much of a southern country girl. :::tries to act threatened but fails::: We're both helpless!

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Ponine: Annoying feedback? I didn't even know such a thing existed!! I LOVED THEM ALL!!! Specs my favorite newsie??? How could you tell??? Besides the fact that I love writing ANYTHING Specs…

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Thumbsucker Snitch: OF COURSE I'M GOING TO DO SNITCH!! That would be newsie sacrilege to miss him!

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Klover: YAY!! YOU NEVER GOT YELLED AT!!! :::does a Klover-never-got-yelled-at jig::: Moans and giggles…yeah…that's all he can make me do when we are….ANYWAY! THANKS!!!

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Sureshot Higgins: SOMEONE had to say SOMETHING about that rake deal!!! I figured I might as well take a shot at it! I think its official that I am going to do Tumbler!!! HERE IS SPOT FOR YOU!!!  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Some people have ambition. He owned it. He had a fire in his eyes   
that never wavered, and an air of determination that was nonexistent   
for people his age. I met him when he was about nine or ten, tiny   
but tough as nails. He may not have lived in the lodging house, and   
though I didn't see him that often, I had to pay attention whenever   
he did stop by. After all, there is something about Spot Conlon that   
both scares you and amazes you at the same time.   
  
He was easy to notice and anyone could spot him in a crowd. I think   
that's how he got his name, but I could be wrong. Those cold eyes   
and slingshot may have helped a bit as well. In fact, that slingshot   
is another theory of mine. He was always on target, hit whatever   
spot he aimed for no matter how small. I didn't ask him, I just   
called him by it as rumors flew about how he got his famous   
nickname. Rumors tend to go around about people with power, and Spot   
was the most powerful newsie among them.  
  
A wise guy to the core, he was often in trouble at the orphanage he   
was left at. It was his way of dealing with the pain. Some sulk, he   
formed an emotional callus to their cruel remarks and constant   
harassment. The sores they so generously bestowed upon his back   
nightly only made him toughen and become filled with animosity   
towards the world around him. Why is it so many people desperately   
want children, but it is the people who hate them that are their   
caretakers in such places.   
  
Spot was always intelligent, anyone could see that just by looking   
at him. He ran as soon as he found the opportunity and immediately   
searched for work to support himself. After all, he needed to make a   
living if he didn't want to end up in that orphanage again. He was   
soon hired at a mill on the edge of Brooklyn, working long hours and   
barely making ends meet. This was no life for him, and he sought a   
new way to survive.   
  
Brooklyn was crawling with newsies, as was every city in New York at   
the time. After all, it was a busy place with busy people who were   
obsessed with the news. Spot happened to walk up to a newsboy one   
day, asked how he could get the job, and he was an official newsie   
by the next morning. He always got to the point. I may have heard   
most of what I learned about Spot from the others, but I knew he was   
straight-forward from the first moment I set eyes on him. That's   
obvious from the second he opens his mouth.   
  
His hard-ass ways got him noticed by the head Brooklyn newsie. Even   
at the age of nine he was a tough one, and this was not often   
overlooked. It was a good thing the leader took a liking to him,   
otherwise he might have been killed within a week. The leader, Glare   
or something I believe, told him all he knew. He let him sit up in   
the perch, cane in hand, above the other boys on the docks every   
now and then. It was only natural for Spot to take his place when he   
left, the young newsboy so full of resolve and so hardened by life   
that it often took others by surprise. His stance demanded respect,   
and he may have been small, but he knew how to take care of himself.   
Fearless and head-strong, Spot was an incredible ally if on your   
side, a force to be reckoned with.   
  
I heard about him leaving from the others entering the lodging   
house. Spot Conlon leaving Brooklyn was like Teddy Roosevelt leaving   
New York. Spot was Brooklyn, the driving force behind the toughest   
group of kids in New York. Time stops for no one, I guess, and soon   
it was time for Spot to say farewell to his perch and find another   
way of life.   
  
It was Swifty that told me about Spot Conlon, the general. I was   
always the last to know these things, and my jaw dropped at the idea   
of Spot Conlon overseas fighting with the best of them. However, it   
did make me feel safer that the toughest kid in Brooklyn was   
fighting for our side, like it made the rest of the newsies feel   
safer when he was fighting for them. He had traded his slingshot for   
a rifle, but I am sure he is out on that battlefield, cane still in   
hand, ambition burning in his eyes. He once fought for Brooklyn, and   
now he fought for us all, and I wish him the best.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
There it is!!! :::goes BACK into closet with Specs to…"hide":::

Stretch


	13. Mush

FINALLY, all you Mush fans can breathe easy now! He has been   
written!! YAY!!   


****

CiCi: NO PROBLEM!! It wouldn't have been a fic with ALL the newsies without a Spot chapter!

****

Hotshot: You're letting me borrow him? We'll share him! He's lanky enough to go around. There is something about Spot we HAVE to like, whether you like it or not. We can still make jokes about him every now and then though! If he was 5'1" at 14, I am sure he grew. I don't know if it's a good thing or not that I gave Spot substance for you. 

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Klover: The jig was on the house! There are plenty more where that came from. Me and Specs are just hiding…I swear…but please knock and wait a few seconds if you need to open the door. 

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Jaede Loriele Conlon: All newsie fans should be given a good dosage of love every now and then! 

****

Southern Spell: THANKS!!! Hopefully this one won't disappoint! 

****

Sqky0o7: Silly General Spot impressions are fun!!! I hoped people would like the last bit!! I hate bad endings. 

****

GypsyRuth: You forgot about Spot? Eh, you're forgiven. Had it been Specs on the other hand…

****

Jo: YAY!! A NEW REVIEWER!!! And one that makes me feel incredibly special, no doubt! ROCK ON! You have made me blush…and then go into seizures. This is what feeling special does to me!  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Naivety was his most distinguishing quality. He was an entirely   
sophomoric child since the moment I first lay my eyes on him. He was   
kind and had an unmistakable wit, yet he lacked the street smarts   
all boys gain through their experiences on the streets. I think he   
just wanted to trust people, to believe that everyone was good and   
those that weren't could be. He smiled when things were rough, and   
made a game out of every occasion, good or bad. Mush was truly one   
of the most compassionate people I have ever had the pleasure of   
knowing.   
  
He never knew his father, and never knew what happened to him   
either. Whether the man was dead or just gone was a mystery to the   
young man, and was kept so by his distant mother. Maternal instinct   
was lost on the woman, and she often gave cold stares instead of   
comforting words to her son. Why people like this choose to   
reproduce is beyond me, but it's not always a bad thing when they   
do. We did get Mush out of it.   
  
He tried to stay with her, hoping desperately with each day that   
went by she would see the error of her ways and love him. I think he   
still prayed for it after she kicked him out and was forced to fend   
for himself. Mush had been sleeping on the streets for some time   
before Jack came across him, cold and hungry in an alley. Cowboy   
introduced himself, offered the kid a bit of money for some food at   
a local stand, and talked to him about his life as a newsie. Before   
we knew it, Mush was living in the lodging house and selling seventy-  
five papers on a good day. At least he finally belonged somewhere.   
  
Mush was always with a girl. He was a good kid, and a gentleman to   
the core. There was something about having a female near him that   
made him feel good about himself and forget any problems he may   
have. He wasn't necessarily romantic, none of the boys were, but he   
did have a bit of charm mixed into that offbeat personality of his.   
The fact that he was compassionate, loyal, and easy to talk to may   
have helped a bit. Girls tend to go for those things.   
  
He didn't want to go, but knew he had to. If he stayed, he would be   
a newsie until the day he died, and would never live up to his   
potential. He may have been of the working class, but potential   
counts for something, no matter how low you are. At least, that's   
what we told ourselves in order to get up in the morning. He packed   
his bags and searched elsewhere for a place to call home and a job   
to make ends meet. That was the only time I don't remember him   
having a smile on his face.  
  
All he ever wanted was to be loved. He finally got that from being a   
husband and a father. He at last had the love of a woman, even if it   
did take years to get it. His talent for making everything a game   
came in handy with children around. I saw him every now and then,   
and still do. After all, everyone sees him on occasion, seeing as he   
is a performer at Irving Hall. He was always performing when he was   
a newsie, why not do it professionally? Medda took him on as a new   
talent when he left the lodging house, and has been there ever   
since. "She's giving Irving Hall to me when she leaves. Says she   
knows I will take care of it," he told me after a show. Mush put on   
one of those smiles, and began to entertain his little ones for a   
bit. He may be grown up, but I still see him as that naïve child   
still wanting to trust the world around him, no matter how hard it   
is on him.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Mush chapter completed. NOW on to the next newsie...RIGHT after a   
little "hiding" in the closet with Specs!  
  
Stretch  



	14. Snitch

Snitch chapter! Woo hoo!! Enjoy! I am a little pressed for time, so shout-outs for this chapter and last chapter will be with Ch. 15!!! I promise!! HERE IS SNITCH!  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
He had a knack for telling the truth. He also had a flair for   
stealing. How the two fit together is beyond me. Snitch seemed to   
know everything about everyone, and could use it as blackmail if   
anybody got on his bad side. However, he was a dedicated friend to   
the end, and wouldn't dream of using anything he knew against any of   
the other lodgers. As hard as we all tried though, it was hard to   
keep tabs on him. Before we knew it, he had swiped some bread for   
dinner or a few cigars, and we just stared at him. I found it quite   
strange that he was good at watching people, and even better at   
being unseen.   
  
His childhood was normal for children in working class New York. His   
parents were either dead or gone and he was left to live with a   
foster family at a very young age. They were never good at dealing   
with children in these places. Meals were few and far between, and   
Daniel found himself stealing in order to survive. He watched   
several "brothers" and "sisters" from his foster home waste away due   
to starvation and neglect. He was forever cursed with the mental   
images of seeing other children around him die while those who were   
in charge of their well-beings simply passed it off, saying they   
were weak as they simply sprinkled salt on their dinner.   
  
Daniel, terrified for his life and willing to do anything to   
survive, left one night and convinced others to do the same. It   
wasn't like he was sacrificing much. He hated the people he was left   
with, and despised his parents for leaving him with them. He seemed   
to feel at home on the streets, though. In an odd way, it was   
comforting and offered a freedom he never had before. He would soon   
see it was also quite dangerous.  
  
The sound of boots pounding on the streets as he ran filled his   
ears, stolen money in hand as a swarm of officers ran towards him.   
He was in better shape than these men, but his legs were shorter and   
was malnourished, causing his pace to slow and the bulls to slowly   
catch up. Blood was rushing to his head and there was a distinct   
throbbing in his ears, when suddenly he was pulled into a dark   
alley. He heard someone say, "Ya looked like ya could use some   
help," as he watched the bulls continue going straight, not even   
realizing what had happened. They waited there for a while in   
silence until both boys were sure the trouble had passed. Stepping   
out of their hiding place, Snitch turned towards the mysterious boy,   
who extended a hand and introduced himself as Swifty.   
  
Swifty knew what Snitch had been through, and decided to help. He   
had wandered the dangerous path of thievery and understood what was   
going on inside Daniel's mind. Survival was all he knew, and Swifty   
felt the need to help him through the agony of being a child of the   
streets. It didn't take him long to become one of us, or for him to   
get his own nickname. The need to steal, though still existed, was   
not as crucial to his very being. Selling papers was now his way of   
life, and so it stayed for several years.   
  
He had seen the others go, and believed it time for his own   
departure one day. He was eighteen, and old enough to have to take   
care of himself. Snitch had certainly grown from the young thief I   
had met to the street-wise newsboy I had com to know. Life was still   
harsh, and the desperate need to survive was ever present, but he   
found other ways to feed himself. Watching him walk out the lodging   
house door that afternoon was upsetting, yet they always have to go   
find their own way. Snitch wasn't any different.   
  
He graces the pages of the newspapers he used to fight against. A   
journalist, Daniel was easy to blend into the background when a   
story hit, and had a great ability to describe it in detail as he   
sat as his desk, furiously typing on his typewriter. He always had a   
knack for the truth, and now he was using it for good. No longer   
relying on stealing his food, he gave the new generation of newsboys   
the same privilege, with catchy headlines allowing them to make ends   
meet. After all, he understood their pain and worked so they never   
had to know the anguish of going without meals.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
There! Hope you liked it! I promise I will do shout-outs for next chapter! :::goes back in closet with Specs::: 

Stretch  



	15. Itey

Hey!   


Itey chapter…know SOME of you have been waiting for this…

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Dream: aww!! Thanks!

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Gretch: I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU READ THEM ALL AT ONCE!! You usually never have time to do anything of the sort! THANKS FOR REVIEWING, buuuuuuddy. OH! AND GIVE ME BACK THOSE ENDINGS!

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Thumbsucker Snitch: I RESPECT YOU!! You insane Snitch freak…hehehe.

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Spatz: Clever? Me?? Aww!!!!!

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DemonBlood: Hmm…who's telling the story??? :::rubs hands together in menacing way:::

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Klover: And, indeed, you are a damn good reviewer! You are doing wonderfully, Grasshopper. 

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Tree: Mummy proud? YAY!!!

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Sureshot Higgins: GET OUT OF THE CLOSET WITH SPECS??? NEVAH!!!!…fine… but just for a little while.

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Chipper: MAGICAL NUMBER 100!!! WOO HOO!!! 

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Jo: :::blushes at all the compliments::: YOU MAKE ME FEEL SO DARN SPECIAL!!! :::passes out and begins to foam at the mouth:::

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BlackFire: It's alright, I don't get upset if you don't review every chapter. I know people have other things to do! Denton and Davey in the closet??? :::bad mental images::: Here is Skittery for you, and there is a free closet just over there. HAVE FUN!

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Celtic Lass: YAY!! I DID A GOOD JOB!! :::collapses from relief:::

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Unnamed: The suspense is killing you? MWAHAHAHA!!!  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
I had never seen so much pain and loss in the eyes of a child. I had   
known may of these boys for years and had heard about their pasts,   
and more often than not they contained some form of abuse. It was   
common, particularly in the lives of working class children. There   
was something different about him. His history was more cruel and   
relentless, and his eyes were dull as if weary from witnessing far   
too much anguish.  
  
They never called him by anything, simply "it". "Tell it to do the   
damn woik," was often heard, though in standard tones, they sounded   
like screams of hatred to the young boy. He wasn't ignored, though   
often wished he were, as they were constantly eying him, waiting for   
his next "mistake" so they could relieve all their frustration onto   
the terrified child. Whether it be physically or mentally, they   
destroyed him. At every chance they would rip away his very dignity   
and rub his nerves raw. Some parents can be cruel.   
  
Oddly enough, he never ran. I believe that when someone's self-  
esteem is so low, he can't imagine being accepted by anyone and   
feels lucky to have somebody near him, no matter how appallingly   
they treat him. He was left, though. In an alley near the lodging   
house to be specific. His eyes were swollen shut and his face was so   
covered in blood we couldn't tell what he looked like when we first   
set eyes on him. Upon asking what scab had the nerve to pound him so   
badly, he lifted his head, said, "My father," and collapsed.   
  
He told us his story once his wounds were healed, for the most part   
anyway, and he could actually function normally. "It" was all he   
ever knew of his name, so the boys began to call him Itey. There   
were no more harsh words directed towards him and he was no longer   
beaten beyond recognition. There was family for him here, whether it   
be blood related or not. For once, he was happy. His dull eyes began   
to show a sign of life as he smiled for the first times he probably   
ever had in his life.   
  
The streets of New York began to feel less and less like home to   
him, with people growing more violent towards others, greed   
consuming the lot of them. He began to see people like his parents   
everywhere, malicious and heartless with no reason to be. He needed   
to get away from the dark world that surrounded him and find peace   
elsewhere. I wished him luck as he waved good-bye, smiling like he   
had learned to do after years of depression.   
  
Itey settled in rural Pennsylvania, taking care of children who had   
runaway from the same problems he had encountered himself as a   
child. The government paid for their care, yet Itey never pocketed a   
dime, using all of it and some of his own to help raised his new   
family. He was only a short train ride away, and would bring the   
children to see the city on holidays. Itey would talk to me quietly,   
eyes bright with happiness , smiling as he told me of his thoughts   
of starting an official family of his own. Sure, he had demons to   
face, but so did the rest of the world.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
You all know where I am off to next! :::sneaks into closet, closes door behind her:::  
  
Stretch  



	16. Crutchy

GOOD MORNING!  
Yeah, I tend to write these late at night (or REALLY early in the   
morning, depending on your perspective). Well, let's hope the SOs   
don't mess up this time.   
  
**Sureshot Higgins: **YAY!! I GET TO PLAY IN THE CLOSET!!! Tumbler will be one of the last ones because of his age, I am doing this according to who came first. There aren't much more to go, though. I think only two more chapters before I get to his. 

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BlackFire: WOO HOO!!! YOU HAVE A CLOSET! Don't freak out Skittery with any new moves…he is a fragile child. I gave Itey a hug too…it was national hug Itey day. 

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Sqky0o7: WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU LAUGHING ABOUT???? HEHEHE!

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Ponine: Hiding with Specs is a hobby of mine…it passes the time. Happy you got the pick-pocket connection! I AM SO HAPPY YOU LIKED THE ITEY CHAPTER! I didn't want to disappoint his ultimate "goil". 

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Raven: HE DOESN'T NEED ROOM TO BREATHE!!! Mmmmm….fries. EVIL TEMPTRESS!!!

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Thumbsucker Snitch: Insanity is a much better asset than respect. To hell with respect! DAMN THE MAN! DOWN WITH THE STATUS QUO!

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Klover: I LIKE YOUR FIC! Oh, I now belong to a lodging house. I'll e-mail you the address if you want. 

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Gretch: MY ENDINGS!! YOU'LL CORRUPT THEM AND TURN THEM INTO EVIL ENDING BEASTS!!!

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Spatz: GO SPATZ! KILL HIS PARENTS! ATTACK!! I am so happy you liked it!!!

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Southern Spell: HAPPY YOU LIKED THEM! Oh, and your singing is LOVERLY!

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Unnamed: A vampire, eh? :::hold up stake::: Come here, vampy vampy vampy. I won't hurt you. MWAHAHAHAHA!!!

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Jo: I am SOOOOO happy you liked Itey!! It kind of made me nervous because he didn't seem like such a serious character. THANK YOU SOOOOOOOOOOO MUCH FOR ALL THE COMPLIMENTS!!! I GOT ALL TEARY WHEN I READ YOUR REVIEW! YOU GET A WALK-IN CLOSET FOR YOU AND MUSH!!  
  
AND THANKS TO EVERYONE ELSE WHO READ IT!!! HERE IS CHAPTER 16!!!  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Malnutrition was a disease that strangled the poor, deprived people   
of New York. Why is it the best of them are devoured by it, leaving   
their offspring to wander the world alone? His mother was sick, her   
chest heaving violently every time she coughed. The young woman's   
red hair lay matted with sweat from fever as her husband watched   
over their sickly child. Her son had to get away from here, away   
from the disease that was choking her and had a firm grip on her   
husband. As she felt the cold hand of death approach, she asked for   
her child to be taken somewhere, safe from illness that thrived in   
these poor conditions. Her son was already showing signs of   
weakness, and she couldn't bear to have his life be cut short like   
so many other children around them. This was her last request, her   
swan song, as she closed her eyes and made her transition into the   
world of angels.   
  
People aren't kinder to you if you are ill. At least, not in foster   
homes. The other children tease because you can't walk properly   
while the adults call you useless and a waste of life. Contrary to   
what people say, words hurt. They may not leave bruises on your   
skin, but they scar your heart, and those wounds never heal. Not   
completely, anyway. Someone can only handle being called worthless   
so many times before they feel the need to leave, choosing to face   
the harsh world around him instead of stay and face another spiteful   
comment.   
  
He made a life for himself begging on the streets. Though often   
called "cripple", he preferred this life. He slept where he could   
and ate when he had the money. It wasn't glamorous by any means, but   
it was a way of living, and of the two he knew, it was the better   
choice. It's rare when a newsie has the money to offer a stranger,   
yet the headlines where good because of the war, and Jack seemed to   
be in a considerably good mood. He flicked a few pennies towards the   
young vagabond and soon found himself lost in conversation with him.   
Cowboy told him there was a better way to live, and, if he wanted,   
he was welcome to come to the lodging house and sell papers.   
Grateful, he joined as soon as he could, using the money he had   
acquired that day from begging to pay for his first week. He finally   
had shelter, and here no one called him useless.   
  
It was strange, his poor physical state seemed to be an asset for   
him selling papers, and the tips where always good. He did have   
trouble walking, usually coming back to the lodging house exhausted,   
his bad leg throbbing from the pressure he was forced to put on it.   
The boys decided to save their money, choosing to forgo meals when   
eating didn't seem necessary. Within a week, they presented their   
new friend with his first gift, a crutch. It made the job easier to   
bear and even gave him his nickname, Crutchy.   
  
They all grow up and feel the need to leave. Crutchy had been a   
constant companion and had the ability to make the day brighter. I   
was going to miss that. However, sooner or later they grow up and   
have to get on with their lives. He would find his own way, and,   
crutch in hand, he left the lodging house in search of his place in   
the world.   
  
Crutchy always felt the need to help others. It was in his very   
nature. In this time, help was needed more than ever with a war   
overseas. The Great War, we called it. He couldn't fight, he hadn't   
been able to as a newsboy and certainly couldn't now. Yet, he   
offered his services in another way, as a war doctor. I guess that's   
what they refer to them as. He bandaged wounded soldiers, becoming   
their companion and a friendly face when they felt lost and alone.   
War is cruel, yet they had Crutchy. I can just imagine him telling   
them about new York as they reminisce about their own hometown, and   
I know his mother is looking down on him, truly proud of the man he   
has become.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
There is Crutchy. Only a few more to go! There might be 22 instead   
of 21, I was thinking of combining 2, but still not sure. Oh well.   
I'll worry about that when I come to it. :::ventures back into   
closet:::  
  
Stretch  



	17. Boots

HEY HEY HEY,   
Sorry for the day between chapters, but I felt the need for a day off. I'm back on track, not sure for how long though. OH! AND FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVEN'T SEEN X2, I ADVISE YOU TO DO SO NOW!! Now, for SOs!   
  
**Sureshot Higgins: **You want to build a closet? I have an empty closet you can use. Look…it's a walk-in…

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Celtic Lass: I take it you are happy to see Crutchy…HEHEHE. Don't hurt yourself, now. 

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Hotshot: Sorry about your computer problem. How did the talent show go? How did Specs behave???

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Sqky0o7: It's official…YOU'RE A FREAK! Welcome to the club. Evil Itey? TEE HEE. 

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GypsyRuth: THAT IS THE POINT OF FICS…TO TAKE OVER YOUR MIND!! MWAHAHA…I'll stop now. 

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Klover: WRITE MORE!!! Now that you have me reading it you can't just stop. 

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Southern Spell: I love going back into the closet…'tis fun…

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Spatz: I liked the Chicago dealy…the ending was cool. 

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Jo: You have no idea how happy your reviews make me! THEY ARE SO SWEET!!! I was so worried people weren't going to like the fact that the boys gave him the crutch. I'M HAPPY YOU DID! Oh…and have fun with Mush…

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Unnamed: You bring up a very valid point…I shall wait until AFTER I get your review for the last chapter…

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Ponine: WOO HOO!! YOU LIKED IT!! HURRAY FOR ITEY'S TOP GOIL!!

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Thumbsucker Snitch: Are you Lute on the NML? If so, then I already knew that. If not…oops. That's right…snuggle with your straight jacket…it only makes it tighter. 

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BlackFire: Hmm…I knew that about the work dork…but I prefer the OTHER meaning. I bet Skittery likes his closet time…just don't break him. You make me feel so special with all that envy talk. But I am a geek (there, I didn't say dork…DOH!).

  
AND THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO READ IT!!! Now...BOOTS!  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
His heart was on the streets. After all, that's where he grew up.   
Arvis and his mother were cold, hungry, and alone, but forced to   
face the world and survive. They had to deal with the bitter cold of   
winter and the miserable heat of summer. How could they not? They   
slept where they could and supported themselves by shining shoes. It   
may not have given them shelter, but it gave them food and that was   
enough for the times being.   
  
The cold of winter finally took a toll on his mother, who passed   
away frozen and ill in an alley on the edge of Manhattan. That's the   
price you pay for being lower class. Arvis kept going, though. What   
was the alternative? Well, one came along when Bumlets and Dutchy   
walked by his shoe shine corner one day. Curious, the two newsboys   
asked the young man how well shining shoes paid, and when he told   
them they offered to show him the ropes of being a newsie. After   
all, the pay was better and shelter usually comes with the job.   
Reluctant, Arvis agreed, and sold papers for a day, as a trial   
basis. Of course, at this time there was a war to deal with, so the   
headlines were often good and fed you well. So, after that trial   
day, Arvis joined the group of newsboys and, for the first time in   
his life, actually had somewhere besides the street to sleep.   
  
His past was still strong with him, and he enjoyed shining shoes,   
even if he wasn't paid for it. So, occasionally when it was a rainy   
night out and there was nothing to do, Arvis would find himself   
shining the other boys' boots. Boots, they nicknamed him, because   
his love with his old profession which had now transformed itself   
into a hobby. What he found so interesting about it was beyond me,   
but whatever made him happy was good enough for us.   
  
We knew he wasn't a permanent newsboy the second he walked through   
that door. His heart was more into shining shoes than selling   
papers, but he was able to make ends meet selling. Maybe not during   
the strike, but for the rest of the time it fed him and kept him   
warm, with a bit of money in his pockets. He had had his fun being a   
newsboy, and simply felt that it was time to go. Of course, not   
before shining the boots of everyone in the lodging house first.   
  
Some people shock you with the person they have become. Not Boots,   
with his small shop where he made and sold shoes of all types. Boots   
is the name, yet so few people realize it has a double meaning,   
referring to the merchandise and the person inside. He still goes by   
that name. He's gotten used to it, I guess. Others may not feel he   
has the best job the world can offer, but he is content. I still   
didn't see what was so interesting about shoes, but whatever made   
him happy is still good enough for us.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
There's Boots, hope you like it. You know where I'm off to...  
  
Stretch


	18. Snipeshooter

YO, WORD, DOG...  
Yeah...anywho, CHAPTER 18!! THE END IS NEARING!! SEE?? DO YOU SEE   
THE LIGHT??? No? Fine then, blind monkeys! MWAHAHA!!! I'll stop   
now...  
  
**Sureshot Higgins: **WOO HOO! Like the closet? It has groovy mood lighting! HOW WAS WOIK??? Tee hee hee. 

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Celtic Lass: :::bows::: Thanks you, thank you. A closet for you and Crutchy? Why certainly! Just…don't break the kid. He's fragile.

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Sqky0o7: Boots is the prince of cannibals??? Interesting…yep…you are a freak!

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Hotshot: WOO HOO FOR THE TALENT SHOW!!! ROCK ON!! What did you think of X2 and the sexiness that is X-MEN??? Is it so wrong to love Nightcrawler? Is it???

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BlackFire: AWW!! I'm so sorry about your review!!! Well, yeah Boots is an odd shoe shining person, geekness is fun, and I WAS IN MY CLOSET WITH SPECS!! What gave you the idea I wasn't? Well, hope Skittles made everything better. 

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Klover: Tie him up??? Hmm…:::Gets ideas::: :::kicks your newsies musies::: GET TO WORK, YOU LAZY BUMS!

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Spatz: Yeah. Boots is fun! EVERYONE NEEDS A JOB THEY LOVE!!

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Unnamed: WHAT??? NO MORE REVIEWS??? Wait…that means I can kill you now! MWAHAHAHA!!

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Southern Spell: :::does the WOO-HOO-she-loved-it dance::: Well, I'm not so sure if it can qualify as a dance, it's more of a wiggle at the moment. 

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Thumbsucker Snitch: :::points finger::: I KNEW IT!! I KNEW YOU WERE LUTE!!! MWAHAHAHAHA!!! :::composes herself::: Anywho, WHY DID THEY TAKE YOUR STRAIGHT JACKET AWAY??? YOU NEED THAT!!!

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Ember: HEY! THANKS FOR YOUR REVIEW!! Not to worry, the narrator shall reveal himself/herself shortly!  
  
AND TO EVERYONE WHO READ IT!!! WOO HOO!!! HERE IS SNIPES CHAPTER!  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
He had a sharp eye, which made up for his occasionally dull wit. He   
wasn't dense, just not very quick at times. Yet, he knew what he   
wanted in life, and you had to give him credit for that.   
Snipeshooter was much younger than some of the other boys, which   
made him the butt of some of their jokes. However, he held his own   
and learned to fight like the best of them. He became tough, and he   
had to, living on the streets of New York.   
  
He was raised with his grandparents, old-fashioned an closed-minded.   
The didn't understand the habits of a young man in the modern days   
before the twentieth century. They had their ways, he had his. Soon,   
he felt the need to leave, and simply packed his bags and made his   
way out the window and down the fire escape. They didn't miss him,   
nor he them. That's the way life is, sometimes. We have to learn to   
face it. Just as he did, sticking a cigar in his mouth and heading   
down to wherever the streets would take him.   
  
Snipeshooter was street-bound and stayed that way for about a year   
before wandering to the lodging house and introducing himself. Thin,   
frail, and starved, he made his way inside and signed himself in. I   
don't think he even realized what this place was, he just wanted   
shelter. Either way, he was a newsboy before we knew it, yet was   
always forced to defend himself due to his size. He became a hard-  
ass, foul mouth, and a good shot with a slingshot. This became   
defense enough for the young newsie, yet also got him into more   
trouble at times. More often than not he entered the bunkroom, lip   
busted and eye swollen. That was his life though, and he adapted to   
it.   
  
I think he knew that if he were to stay he wouldn't amount to   
anything. He picked up a cigar Racetrack had sent him, packed the   
same bag he came with, and left. He was no longer the thin, frail   
young man that had entered, but he had grown quite a bit and was   
well equipped to defend himself if needed. Though not exceptionally   
brilliant, he was a fighter, and I knew he would do well.   
  
His sharp eye, I have found out, has become of some use to our   
country, and for the good of the world as a whole. A fighter to the   
end, Snipershooter has become a sniper. In times like this, it takes   
a fighter like him to truly win, and I have all my faith in him. I   
receive letters from Snipes on occasion, from the front in France to   
forts in Russia. It's sets my mind at ease to know he is still   
alive, fighting the good fight. It's the only thing that keeps me   
from going mad, seeing letters from all of them, knowing that they   
are alright. After all, they were, and still are, my family.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
WOO HOO!! THERE IT IS!!! YOU ALL KNOW WHERE I AM OFF TO!  
  
Stretch  



	19. Tumbler

HEWWO!  
It's me, the busy Stretch. That's right. Stretch is actually busy   
and has find it hard to update her fic. However, I have done so for   
you this morning and have the next chapter here for all you fine   
people. I know I probably should have given it to you sooner, but,   
as I said, I have been a bit busy and I really just got a spark   
of inspiration for this chapter as I was sitting her a little while   
ago. I am excruciatingly tired right now, so SOs for last chapter and 

this chapter will be on Ch. 21. I PROMISE!!!  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
A malnourished mute when I met him, it surprised me how much   
stronger, mentally and physically, he grew within the few years he   
stayed at the lodging house. He was shy when he met the others, and   
rarely spoke to anyone around him, let alone in the middle of   
Manhattan streets. The others helped him sell for the first month or   
two, his handicap becoming a charity case to the people of New York.   
He wasn't a real newsboy at first, just a prop that was paid enough   
to eat and have a roof over his head.   
  
He grew comfortable with his surroundings and began to socialize   
with the newsboys he bunked with. Soon he began to talk, and, after   
a while, he began to talk so much we tried to get him to shut up. I   
was happy to see him communicating with others, and soon he became   
the most energetic one in the lodging house, jumping up and down on   
the beds and tumbling all over the place. In fact, that's what the   
others started to call him, Tumbler.   
  
He would have nightmares, though, Those damn things kept him tossing   
and turning all night, and some where so realistic, he would stay   
silent the entire day. I guess that's how he dealt with pain. How he   
could kept it inside like that was beyond me, and we would often try   
to get him to speak of his past or problems he was trying to face on   
his own. When this came up, he would shrug and simply change the   
subject. If he wasn't ready to talk about it, then I wasn't going to   
make him.   
  
Tumbler's screaming at night became routine, though it happened less   
often as time went by. He would sometimes say things like, "Please   
put it down, don't hurt her. Please," and "Mommy," but I was never   
too sure of what happened when he was a child. However, I knew it   
caused him more grief than I would ever know.   
  
As always, they have to leave. I wasn't so upset about his   
departure, for I knew that he had become something that many of us   
doubted, a normal young man. He spoke regularly to people, whether   
he knew them or not, and he no longer shied away from society and   
hid in a dark corner. His demons weren't gone by any means, just   
controlled. Emotional scars like the ones he bears never really go   
away, they are just dealt with, and he dealt with them well, might I   
add.   
  
I didn't think I could be prouder of Manhattan's smallest newsboy,   
but I was corrected when he offered to catch up with me over some   
lunch at Tibby's. After all, he did have some fond memories there   
and he felt the sudden urge to reminisce. He was a playwright, and   
his first script had just been accepted by the new owner of Irving   
Hall, a man by the name of Mr. Meyers. His silent, dark past seemed   
to come out slightly in his writing, making for a more morose story   
than other writers. Yet, with a war on our hands, people aren't   
always in the mood to be happy, and sometimes have to fine a   
creative way to grieve. One thing I brought up was the fact that he   
was young and energetic, but was one of the few young men who   
weren't fighting on the German front. He turned his eyes down, said   
he hated guns, and we finished our meals talking of theatre and the   
arts.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
There, once again I hope you liked it. Excuse me while I go back in   
my closet, and while Specs is sleeping I must proclaim my undying   
love to Alan Cumming and my undying lust to Nightcrawler. I don't   
love Specs any less though. What did I tell you? I am a very busy   
Stretchy!  
  
Stretch  



	20. David

Hey-lo all!  
Sorry it has taken me so long to get this chapter to you, but I   
have had a REALLY busy few days. Prom and whatnot is a pain in the   
ass to get ready for! Well, Im back and here is the 20th chapter.   
Thats right, after this one there will only be 2 more to go!!!   
  
**Gretch: **THANKS FOR ALL THE REVIEWS!! HERE IS THE CHAPTER YOU HAVE BEEN WAITING FOREVER FOR!

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Southern Spell: Aww, NEVER STOP SINGING. YOU MUST FOLLOW YOUR DREEEEAAAAM!!!

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Celtic Lass: Tumbler is the little kid who skids across the floor when everyone is leaving the lodging house in CTB. 

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Jo: I never know quite what to say about your reviews, and that is a good thing. Its things like this that allow me to keep writing. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint! Thanks again, I truly appreciate it!

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Sqky0o7: Aww, you missed chapter 18. That's alright. Tumbler is the little kid that pulls up his suspenders in CTB, the one that slides across the floor. Not many people remember who he is. He still deserves love, though. 

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Spatz: Yeah, poor Tumbler…he needs a hug. 

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Klover: :::hangs head in shame::: I guess I don't know my own strength. Your muse needs to stay awake…the lazy git! What are you going to do in math class now? You can read my new X2 fic!…If you want. 

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Pyromaniacal Llama: WOO HOO FOR THE NEW NAME!!! I LOVE IT!! Pyro does rock hard core, but I think I am an official Nightcrawler girl. So, you don't know who Tumbler is, huh? Think little kid who slides across the lodging house floor in CTB. There, have it now? Good. X2 FREAK? ME??? OF COURSE!!!!!!! :::tackles Nightcrawler…and Alan Cumming while I am at it:::

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Sureshot Higgins: I wish I could have made you happy by updating faster but I was SOOOO busy! I didn't know I had a life until it slapped me in the face! Oh well. Two more chapters left…it's going to be rather different not writing this anymore. It will be my first finished fan fic. How odd…

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Tree: X2 IS WONDERFUL!!! I ADORE NIGHTCRAWLER!!!! 

And to everyone else who read it, THANKS!!! I really appreciate your reading my silly fic!!! Here is the next chapter that is LONG overdue!  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
David always had something to say. Whether it was something of   
importance or not, he had a point to get across. This was quite a   
change, considering the only point any of the other boys would try   
to get across would be how many punches they could land without   
getting hit themselves. David was the mouth of the group, though   
sometimes too shy to pass the words on himself. He grew out of it   
however, and was soon able to say whatever he wanted to whomever he   
wanted whenever he wanted. His opinions occasionally got him into   
trouble, and he would sometimes end up with a black eye. He learned   
to deal, however. His heart soon hardened slightly and he began to   
adapt to the harsh life on the streets. That's what being a newsie   
does to you.   
  
His life began uneventful enough. Typical parents with a typical   
working class childhood. He would go to school when he could and   
stayed home when needed. Like the other children in the same social   
position as him, he would play in the streets in the afternoons and   
on the weekends, and study in the evenings before another day of   
school. His father worked, his mother took care of the house, and he   
had an older sister to help watch over him and a younger brother to   
teach and look after. For a child of blue collar Manhattan, that was   
the perfect life.   
  
Perfection often proves to have flaws eventually, blotches on the   
silver lining, and his wonderful life came to a haul as true reality   
took shape. His father was injured on the job, a metal beam falling   
on his arm, crushing the bone severely. Thus, David was forced to   
assume the roll of the working man of the house and joined the ranks   
of the newsboys.   
  
He stayed at the lodging house occasionally, mostly just for company   
instead of necessity. I got to know him quite a bit through the   
years, and he proved himself as intelligent as well as open-minded.   
The streets of New York were in desperate need of his personality as   
well as his words of wisdom. He knew far more than anyone else his   
age I had ever encountered, and he inspired the newsboys, as well as   
many others, to rise above their social ranking and take a stand.   
  
It seemed only fitting for him to go on to better things. He had   
risen above the big shots who owned New York, and now he was one of   
them. Standing in front of his high vaulted window, he watched the   
newsboys working feverishly selling the papers he had worked so hard   
to create. Life was now easier, his employees could do all the work   
for him as he stood back and watched with sheer satisfaction. David   
still liked to associate with those socially "below" him,   
understanding what they were going through and never refusing them a   
bonus or two throughout the year. His most loyal employee could   
vouch for that, a young man I am also acquainted with by the name of   
Daniel, or Snitch. He still has his ideas, at least this time he can   
pass them on to the world, provided you pay a penny a pape for them.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
There you go! Only 2 more chapters left and then it is all   
finished! ::goes back to where you already know where she is going   
with the two people you know she is going to be in there with:::  
  
Stretch  



	21. Les

Hey!

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Sureshot Higgins: Sorry about the computer trouble. I'll keep writing, I just hope I keep getting ideas. 

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Klover: Bah, I know it took me a long time to update, but I had prom and end of year stuff with friends. Things have been busy on the Stretchy front, lets hope it calms soon. 

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Southern Spell: Mailing list? I forgot something. Anyway, Davey does have a habit of being snooty in fics (snooty-homage to Ferris Bueller). 

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Celtic Lass: Yay!! You liked me being profound. I feel the need to do that sometimes. It's odd. AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE COMPLIMENTS!!!

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Spatz: HURRAY!!! YOU LOOKED BACK ON SNITCH TO SEE WHY HE WAS IN THERE! I try to get some of these boys to interact with each other. It seems natural. 

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Sqky0o7: Closet time is fun, and I have more people in there now. Most recent addition: Emcee from Cabaret. I LOVE HIM!!!

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Pyromanical Llama: Run away to Borneo? Me??? NEVER!!!…It would be Fiji. I made you like David? Not sure if that's a good thing or not. I'M SO HAPPY YOU LIKE MY X2 FIC!!! I adore Nightcrawler!!!

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Hotshot: Yeah, sometimes people don't give David enough love. :::goes to read fic you told her about:::

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Brook Lyn: Hmmm…that name sounds ODDLY familiar. THANKS FOR THE REVIEW!

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Gretch: I KNEW YOU WOULD LIKE IT, WITH IT BEING DAVID AND ALL!

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Ponine: HAHAHA!!! David a Pulitzer??? Hmmm…

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Thumbsucker Snitch: I LOVE X2!!! NIGHTCRAWLER IS ADOREABLE!!! ZOOT!!! MONTY PYTHON!!! WOO HOO!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Les was the tag-along. The little brother to everyone in the ragged   
bunch that surrounded Manhattan on a daily basis. They were his   
idols, and he looked up to them intently like a devoted puppy. In a   
way it was endearing. He wasn't the youngest newsboy in New York,   
but he was probably the most innocent. Though he never truly   
understood what being a child of the streets was, having older   
siblings to help take care of him and a warm home to go to at the   
end of the day, he gathered more out of life from those few years   
selling papers than I think he ever had, or ever will again.   
  
David was always around, for advice, to save him from unwelcome   
situations, or to just tell him what to do when Les stood clueless   
and confused. I'm not sure how he would have survived without his   
older brother always there, grabbing him by the collar when he was   
bordering on trouble. Soon, the others took him on s a sort of   
surrogate sibling, having either none of their own or being miles   
away from them. It was because of this that Les remained the most   
naïve of the group, still believing in the stories he was taught in   
school about good overcoming evil while the others understood that   
it wasn't that simple.   
  
It wasn't permanent. I knew that from the second I laid my eyes on   
him. He was going to become something, or be taken care of for the   
rest of his life. That was the way he was, and some people can just   
tell. Certain people have their lives ahead written all over their   
faces, so that even if they don't notice it, others do. Les was   
never going to have to struggle as the others did. Sure, he had his   
hardships, but they passed with time and built character.   
  
It was a hard few years, saving up for it. Yet, he had his parents   
to help, as well as his older siblings. They were there for him from   
the beginning and they will be there for him until the bitter end.   
For years they saved, wanting his life to be better than theirs, his   
world to stay more innocent and optimistic. By the time his   
schooling was finished, graduating a year late due to his time off   
selling when his father was between jobs because of his injury, Les   
was given the opportunity to attend college, something neither his   
brother nor sister had the privilege of doing.   
  
Between his parents' saving, David's paper earning more money each   
year, and the textile factory Sarah managed, They somehow managed   
it. Les was the only one of the boys to get a higher education. He's   
still studying, working to become a lawyer of sorts I believe. He   
has the education to allow him to survive and give the children he   
may one day have a better life than he had. However, he has the   
experience to treat the people he is hired for with utmost respect   
and understanding that many spoiled young men will never offer. It's   
good to finally have someone of that status working on your side.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THERE!! ONE MORE CHAPTER TO GO!!! WOO HOO!!!

Stretch


	22. Final Thoughts

Hello,   
To those of you who have followed the story from the beginning,   
or even to those who skipped through certain chapters, I thank you   
for giving my silly little fic so much appreciation. Here is the   
final chapter. It feels quite odd being finished with such a long   
fic. Some of you guessed who it was, some didn't. This one is a   
GREAT DEAL longer because of all that I felt I needed to put in   
here. Thought I should warn you. Thank you:   
  
**Thumbsucker Snitch: **Les is adorable!!! He gets too much crap for being the tag-along brother! Oh well. NOW I AM ALL DONE!!! WOO HOO!!! Kind of sad though. 

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Pyromaniacal Llama: Les STUPID??? Where did you get an idea like that??? Well…I can think of a few places, come to think of it. 

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Jo: Your reviews always manage to make my day. No matter what, I can always rely on a Jo review to cheer me up! Now you can read my X2 fic if you really want something to read after this! THANKS FOR ALL YOUR SUPPORT!!!

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Sureshot Higgins: Hope my good ideas carried over to this chapter!!! It would be horrible to disappoint with my last chapter!

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Hotshot: OH!!! I was wondering why you might have reviewed twice. Thanks for telling me about the sweet fic you found!!!

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Spatz: I want to go to Cambridge to study theatre!!!! Who knows? NYU seems good for him, though. 

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Celtic Lass: I am proud of it, oddly enough. THE NARRATOR WILL OFFICIALLY BE REVIEWED IN THIS CHAPTER!! DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUN!!!  
  
and to all of you who had read and/or reviewed, A BIG THANKS!!! I   
won't say anything after the chapter, I feel it would take away from   
the ending to have such a huge change in subject, so...THANKS FOR   
READING, HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!! LET'S BREAK THE 200 REVIEW MARK, PEOPLE!!!  
  
Stretch  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Dear All,   
  
We knew this day would come, when my breathing would become short   
and sharp, my eyes no longer able to focus. Hell, I'm not truly the   
one writing this. I can't. Luckily I have people close to me,   
willing to help me out in such an occasion. I have recently been   
forced by nature to rely on others for a great deal. It's   
inevitability, the way the world works. I'm not scared, not anymore.   
  
Of course, years ago I would have invited a way out of the life I   
was leading. Harsh reality set in quickly in my young life, and   
cruelty seemed to be the only emotion others around me would share.   
Society shunned me, for either my social status or my background,   
I'm not sure. Perhaps some are born to be rejected. I took the pain,   
bottled it inside, and continued on with my day in the world of   
competitive, unmerciful New York. I was born here, and quite   
convinced I was going to die here as well. I know you have felt that   
before, taking the abuse from the world and pretending like it   
hasn't affected you as you grit your teeth, hoping desperately that   
the pain will cease. It's not always that easy, is it? Oh, if only   
it were.   
  
There was one, however. Someone out there who didn't treat me as if   
I were there to serve her, to be mistreated by her. Marion, a vision   
of beauty and intelligence in the lackluster world that consumed my   
very existence. I courted her, as we did back then, trying to be a   
proper gentlemen in the uncouth society I lived in. Eventually we   
married, and even managed to have a child. I cherished my little   
Emily, the embodiment of all that was pure and gentle. I adored her   
calling me Daddy, holding her when life seemed cruel, and laughing   
with her when the world would show us a moment of sunlight in the   
everlasting night of our underprivileged existence.   
  
Soon, the light went out completely, as Marion's life, and the life   
of my child, was taken away in one swift swoop of fate. I can still   
remember the look of fear in my child's eyes and the pain searing   
through her body from the wounds covering her flesh. I refuse to go   
through the details of that night, even now, but I will never   
understand what possessed that man to drive a knife into my poor   
child and my dear wife. I wouldn't take a walk alone through Central   
Park at night since then. It's amazing how a peaceful stroll can   
lead to such loss. Life changes just that quickly, and you all know   
that. You have felt sudden bereavement and heartache that will leave   
scars on your hearts for the rest of your lives.   
  
Years of darkness and depression consumed me, barely allowing me to   
breathe. After a while, even a perfect day seemed cruel and   
heartless. Everything seemed out to get me, and whether it actually   
was or not made no difference. My world had fallen apart, and I   
spent two decades trying to put it back together. I moved away from   
the neighborhood and bought a small lodging house in Manhattan.   
Empty, completely devoid of life, the place seemed more likely to   
fall apart than to shelter anyone. Within a few weeks, I was tired   
of the life I was given, and sought to rid myself of the pain that   
was suffocating me.   
  
Racetrack, remember what you asked me when you knocked at the door?   
Remember the rope I gave to Jack? Fate took hold that day, bringing   
you in when it did. I thank God that you showed up, asking for a   
place to stay, penniless and bruised. I remember when you asked for   
shelter, your eyes showed a desperation that I had only encountered   
when looking at myself in the mirror, and I felt the overwhelming   
need to help. I dropped the desire to end it all, for the time   
being, and soon the need to stop the grieving melted away.  
  
I began to fix the place up, and with the arrival of each of you I   
learned something new about human nature as well as myself. The   
world wasn't fair, but that didn't mean it was completely cruel to   
the working class. Whether you all want to admit it or not, you   
saved my life. You became my sons, or even grandsons, and became   
another family to me. You kept me going, even during the harsh   
winters when I would remember my dear Emily and Marion, you would   
talk me out of my depression and allowed me to face the world.   
  
This is how I have thought of you all, what I remember most about   
you. I wanted to share it with those that never had the privilege of   
meeting the boys of Manhattan. I was truly lucky, and I know that   
now. The scars from my losses have never fully healed, but they were   
made more bearable because I had a family. I wished that I could   
have sheltered you all from the grief that went with reality. The   
streets are callous and thrive on making good souls miserable. So, I   
leave one final thought to each of you, hoping that they will aid   
you in your days to come.   
  
Race: I understand your loss, and truly don't know what to say that   
will make it go away. You have your children, keep them safe from   
the hellish life that you once led. Understand that every day that   
passes by, you are lucky to have them, just as they are lucky to   
have you. Your harsh wit was far ahead of your years, and you had an   
understanding of life that many twice your age lacked. I implore you   
to stay the way you were, the way I remember you. Keep your chin up,   
may your pride never leave you.   
  
Snoddy: Your strength astounded me. I will never forget how you   
smiled through illness, laughing off the pain. Pressing forward   
through the severe conditions of life was a gift, and you owned it.   
I have yet to see such determination to live on in someone's eyes as   
I did with yours. I only hope you are alright, and are still   
fighting like the best of them.   
  
Kid Blink: Your smile made me forget the world for a few moments,   
and that saved me on many occasions. You have an enthusiasm that has   
yet to be equaled. Your sense of humor lifted the spirits of those   
of us that only had pain to look back on. Through your emotional and   
physical scars, you remained cheerful, and whether or not it was a   
façade, I appreciated every moment of it. I only wish you stayed in   
touch. If not with me, then at least the others.   
  
Pie-Eater: I remember losing my mother. It tears your heart and   
leaves you desperate and alone. You held your head up though, and   
held her memory alive in your heart. I am sure she still looks down   
at you, not possibly wanting anything more from her son. You are   
something she can easily be proud of. Know that you aren't your   
father unless you want to be. Strive to be your own man.   
  
Cowboy: You had the ability to open the eyes of thousands and have   
more heart than I ever thought possible. You are better than your   
father. Know that, hold on to it, and keep it in your mind when you   
feel like everything is against you. The world is a cold place, but   
only one kind person could warm it up, make it friendly once more.   
  
Bumlets: Our gypsy. Prejudice was your enemy, screaming at you,   
making you vulnerable to others who didn't understand. Because of   
that, however, you have an open mind. That is the greatest virtue of   
all. It is one thing to deal with a group of people, but to   
understand and respect them is completely different. Never let go of   
that. Your travels may show you bad things as well as good. Don't   
let them affect your personality negatively. Take them and let them   
make you stronger and more understanding of the people around you.   
The world needs more people like you.   
  
Skittery: Let people into your life, allow them a glimpse into the   
wonderful person you are. As brutal as people can be, there are some   
worth knowing out there. You just have to find them among the demons   
that surround you. People aren't always around to hurt you and break   
your heart. Please understand there is good in the world, and it is   
worth looking for, despite the emotional scars you may gain.  
  
Specs: Your eyesight is terrible, your mouth is worse, but your   
heart is astounding. Your rebellious soul got you in trouble on   
occasion, but you stuck with it. I wish I could make your pain go   
away, your losses disappear and for you to have your family back.   
You should have never dealt with what you were forced to deal with   
in that orphanage. I wonder if you still roam the roofs of   
Manhattan. I am curious how much wear the roof of your bookstore has   
gotten. No doubt you still need time to yourself and a high place to   
look down from. You were a king compared to the Pulitzers and   
Hearsts of the world, with your free mind and foul mouth. I saw it,   
and I am sure the others did too.   
  
Dutchy: You may have looked confused, but I have no doubt that you   
understand more about the world than many will even dream of.   
Children are lucky to have you so near to them, there to talk to   
them when the world won't listen. They need someone to teach them   
how society works, and help shield them from the sorrow of reality.   
Your foolish smile will always be remembered, by me, the newsies,   
and your students. It is that silly smirk that made me laugh and   
forget my anger for a few moments, just as it did with many others.   
  
Jake: It eases my mind that you didn't go through as much as many of   
the others did. That doesn't mean that you were spared the anguish   
of seeing a loved one pass away. But, you moved on, and adapted to   
life rather well. Some people can't deal with a simple change in   
routine, your entire world was flipped upside-down yet you moved on.   
Keep your manners, Hayseed, and please stay the gentleman you always   
were. Society is better off with you in the world.   
  
Swifty: You rose above what everyone had thought of you, and that   
takes determination like no other. For someone to become different,   
and to have the will to allow it to happen, is amazing. I was proud   
of you every moment I saw you, whether it be because you saved   
someone from trouble or you managed to avoid the Refuge for another   
day. However, what makes me the proudest is seeing you protect the   
citizens of New York from the people who take advantage of them. You   
know what they are going through, and that's what makes it so   
brilliant.   
  
Spot: I may not have known you as well as the others, but you exude   
an air of ambition. You were something great, even then. It wasn't   
just the cane, or the cold eyes. It was the way you held yourself in   
a crowd. I wish you luck on the front, and know that any enemies   
that come your way will cower before you. It's something you have,   
and, believe me, it's a rare quality.   
  
Mush: You were a born performer, and the entertainment world is   
better now that it has you. Well, the world itself is better with   
you. You weren't as immature as you made yourself out to be, but you   
weren't nearly as fierce as the others were. Your naivety was what   
made you Mush, and I wouldn't have changed a thing about you. Know   
that I loved you as a son, the others loved you as a brother, and no   
matter what you will always have someone to watch your back when the   
going gets tough.   
  
Snitch: Your ability to truly see people is something many will   
never understand. You see through the persona they convey through   
their actions, and look further. I have never known anyone as   
observant of humankind as you. I hope you continue to see good in   
the world, and continue to make the lives of younger generations   
easier than your own.   
  
Itey: I know it isn't the same, but we were always willing to be   
your family. You didn't deserve anything that happened to you, and I   
wish there were some way I could absorb some of the pain you have   
encountered during your life. You are far too good a person to have   
that happen to you. I know that you shall one day have a family to   
call you own, but you have brothers willing to stand by you should   
anything happen along the way. I am proud of you Itey, and the   
strength you possess that allows you to get up each day and treat   
those children you care for with respect and compassion.   
  
Crutchy: Your empathy towards others is astounding, and it's a   
wonder how someone so weak of body can be so strong in their morals   
and views. You always had a way to make the others, as well as   
myself, smile despite the sorrow that surrounds each day. I thank   
you for the light you brought to this world and know that each day   
that goes by is better because of you.   
  
Boots: To live your life full of love is a true rarity. You pass   
each day with a smile on your face and a song in your heart. That   
has always amazed me. Born on the streets, yet you still live each   
day as if the world owes you nothing and the sun will always shine.   
If only everyone could have a bit of that in their lives, it would   
make life easier to bear for us all.   
  
Snipeshooter: No matter what, you always held on to something worth   
fighting for, worth dying for. Forced to defend yourself at all   
times, you grew up rather quickly. Perhaps quicker than any of the   
others. Your mind grew and your heart hardened, and I was rather   
worried of the man you would become. However, I stand here today, or   
rather lay here, and remain proud of you and what you have achieved.   
  
Tumbler: Let the past be buried and live your life. I know it is   
hard to move on, and I am truly proud of the effort you have made to   
go forth and leave your anger and confusion behind. I wish I could   
have said something to you when you were a child to make life   
easier, to make the memories less painful, but I had no clue where   
to begin. You have now developed into a brilliant playwright and an   
incredible human being. Let no one convince you otherwise.   
  
David: You were the driving force behind this ragged army. It was   
you words that gave them the courage to challenge the gods of this   
city. They were one because of you. You made them understand what   
they could become. New York stopped for a day based on your words   
and the faith others had in them. It takes a great man to make   
people listen, but to make the world stop takes talent. You have it.   
Never let it go.   
  
Les: Innocence is something that can be ripped away in a moment. How   
you have managed to retain it is beyond me, especially after all you   
have experienced. You have the eyes of a child, and it takes a   
strong mind to keep it like that. I often wish I could see the world   
the way you do, even if it were to be just a moment. Then, perhaps,   
it wouldn't look so cruel.   
  
I shall miss you all, and watch as you from above with my dear   
Marion by my side, Emily dancing happily nearby. That's the way it   
was meant to be, or so I think. Life holds many surprises for you,   
and when you feel life has taken you down a dark and sinister path,   
remember what you have been through, and the people you knew, and   
may your memories light you path back home.   
  
My chest is getting heavy, it surprises me I was able to finish   
this. I guess the will to keep going keeps a person breathing.   
However, I have said my peace, and left each of you with all I have.   
You shall notice that I have left each of you a key to the lodging   
house. I made one made for all of you, so that should you return,   
you would always be welcome. You were my children, and I can never   
give back to you what you have so generously bestowed upon me: the   
chance to live again. I trudged through the long walk of life   
because you all were there to keep me up, to keep me going. That is   
priceless, and that is what I loved the most. Stay the way you are,   
the way you always were.   
  
Sincerely,   
Kloppman  



End file.
